Her Braid
by I am that Writer
Summary: "His fingers weave the strands into place, silky against his fingers. Their dark chocolatey color is glossy, catching all the lights in the room, mesmerizing him." While experiencing trauma and grief together, Jason braids Piper's hair, again and again and again. Jasper, one shot.


His fingers weave the strands into place, silky against his fingers. Their dark chocolatey color is glossy, catching all the lights in the room, mesmerizing him.

Her back is to him, still, her arms hugging her knees to her chest. He can see the curve of her cheek and a corner of her eye, sparkling.

They both sit on her bed in the Aphrodite Cabin. The room is empty but for them. Jason feels like they're the only people in the whole world. He wishes it were so, just for a little while.

When he finishes, she turns to him and smiles sweetly, just the corners of her mouth turned up, and says, "Thank you." Then she's grabbing him by the front of his white cotton shirt and pulling him into a kiss, and he, being a hormonal, sixteen-year-old boy, lets his instincts take over, and he's softly fingering the side of her face, then sliding his fingers down to gently touch her collarbones, and she's pressing herself against him, moving her hands to grab behind his shoulders, then they fall in a heap on the floor and stop, faces flushed, and start laughing.

He loves her for it.

...

Piper is crying. He can hear it through her bedroom door, and his heart aches. He hates it when she cries. It makes him angry, wanting to stop whatever is hurting her.

He goes into her small cabin on the _Argo II_ quietly. She's sitting on her bed, curled up against the wall, wearing a light-purple tank top and gray sweatpants. He's instantly enchanted by her beauty, which never fails to amaze him, but pushes it back before it overwhelms him. He has more important matters to be addressing at the moment.

When she sees him, she instantly tries to swipe away her tears with the backs of her hands, and fails. "They're _gone_," she hiccups. "They fell to . . . to . . ."

He hurries to sit beside her on the bed, and holds her. She doesn't need to say any more. They've all felt the grief since they lost Percy and Annabeth. She presses her face into his shoulder and he can feel her tears seeping through his shirt.

He can feel her pain, and anguish, just being near her.

He can't stand it.

"Sit back," he orders roughly, and she obeys without a word.

He sets to work on her hair, this time an over-the-shoulder braid.

She's quiet the whole time.

...

The war with Gaea and her giants is over, and they've won, but Jason is feeling no hint of victory. Devastation threatens to consume him. There were so many lives lost . . . so many . . .

His blue eyes are pale and wide as they sweep over the bloody battlefield, smoke rising from burned-out fires, and the bodies . . .

He closes his eyes, trying to block the scene out.

A hand presses on his arm.

He turns to look into the most amazing, multi-colored eyes he's ever seen.

"How about a braid?" his girlfriend says softly. "I want to look my best when the gods call us up to Olympus to reward us."

She always knows just the right things to say to him, at just the right times.

He pushes back the feeling of loss, for now, and his fingers get busy.

But the smell of burning wasteland and bodies is still in his nostrils.

...

It's been a year now, and there's been no quests issued from the gods, no prophecies spewed in green smoke from an Oracle's mouth. Jason is feeling content.

It's a warm summer day. He's sitting with Piper down by the lake, at the end of the dock, sitting in front of a shrub that conceals them, so it once again feels like it's just the two of them, for miles and miles.

She's wearing a white, yellow, and orange striped T-shirt, and faded, denim blue jean shorts. Her feet are bare, her sandals confiscated on the dock, and she's passing her toes through the warm water lazily. A tanned arm is propped up, supporting her body.

Jason is sitting behind her, watching her, and he almost can't take it. She's beautiful and amazing, and he can't believe she's his. But there's just one thing missing . . .

When he scoots up behind her and starts separating pieces of her hair, warm from the sun, she shoots him a look over her shoulder. "What are you doing?"

"Keeping up an old tradition," he replies cockily, and starts on a braid.

Except this time, as he lays piece over piece over piece, there are memories mixed in with the strands, from other times he's braided her hair. He's hit by waves of images flashing in his mind—of loss, but also achievement.

After all, they've been through so much together, and they survived.


End file.
